


Midnight Molasses

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Game of Silence (US TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after they lose Boots, Jackson and Gil share a bottle of whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Molasses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romeokijai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romeokijai/gifts).



> I'm popping this fandom's and ship's cherry! Come join me!

The whiskey tastes like piss. You would think that Mr. Fancypants Attorney at Fucking Law, Jackson Brooks, Esquire, would’ve sprung for the good shit, yet you would’ve apparently been wrong. Dead wrong. 

“Boots wrong,” he slurs and giggles, and then chokes because the whiskey’s gone down the wrong pipe and his eyes are full of snot, and his nose is full of tears, or vice versa. It’s too late in the evening to work that kinda thing out.

“What?” Jackson lifts his head off his arms, vision blurred, tongue slow and slurring.

“Nevermind, brother.”

“I gotta… I gotta get home… Marina… gon’ kill me.” He rubs his face, his long fingers messing up his hair. Gil doesn’t remember it being quite so curly before, but the way it’s sticking up either which way in the humid Houston heat, it’s giving him all kinds of flashbacks. Let me tell you: _all kinds_ , like the kinds you don’t tell your grandkids about.

“Marina…” Gil squeezes out, hand swirling the tumbler. It’s got about a pinky’s worth of booze at the bottom, but he’s in no hurry to down it, ‘cuz when the whiskey’s gone, he’s gonna have to get up and go home. And home is where Jessie is and Gil just can’t fathom having _that_ conversation right now. Plus, Jackson is back in his life. And that feels oddly reassuring. “Marina,” he repeats, letting the word percolate into his tongue with the whiskey, reverberate against his teeth. “That’s the place they keep boats, innit?”

The both laugh and Jackson doesn’t contradict him, only reaches out his hand and refills both their tumblers, even though the blood-shod whites of his eyes are making the baby blues somehow even more impossibly blue. And doesn’t that bring back some memories? Summer skies. Fields of wildflowers. The constant buzz of insects in the Texas heat. Their bodies brushing against each other, before it had become bad, before it had become wrong, before god damn Quitman came and fucked them all up.

“Are you really back?” Gil asks, and somehow Jackson’s thumb is brushing against his own, and Gil swears he’s about to cry, but he can’t because his eyes are too paralyzed from too much alcohol in his system. He’s pretty sure that’s how it works, anyways.

“I’m here, Gil. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not even to the Marina?” he chortles and snorts at his own bad joke and then Jackson’s pulling him into a bear hug and ruffling his hair. And god _damn_ it feels so good to be this close to him again. The closest Gil’s gotten to Jackson in the past few years had been by banging Jessie. Cliché, he knows, but he’d never claimed to be above cliché.

“I love you, brother,” Jackson whispers, his voice pouring into Gil’s ear like the sweetest honey, like bourbon (the good shit), like molasses. Each word hoarse with emotion, laden with memories so heavy, so heavy, all Gil wants to do is lay them down. And he could lay them down here, at Jackson’s feet, because if anyone knows it’s Jackson. And it’s all right to cry because they’ve each seen worse. So his fingers clench around his friend’s hip and he buries his nose in Jackson’s neck, where it’s all warm and moist and dewy and smells of cologne (the expensive shit, probably Jean Paul Whatsit). Smells of home. Smells of the good old days.

“I love you too, Jax.” Gil mutters and shuts his eyes because back in the days, you know, before Quitman, he only had to shut his eyes for Jackson to know what to do. To close the distance between their mouths. To make everything all right again.

Gil closes his eyes and he waits. A warm hand on his cheek. The shift of their bodies, melting into each other like tallow. He doesn’t have to wait long. It’ll be a while till everything’s all right again, but that’s okay, he can pretend. There’s always more whiskey.


End file.
